


until the stars burn out the morning sky

by Rrrowr



Series: WIP Amnesty [19]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banter, Exhibitionism, M/M, Motorcycles, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 07:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8788276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: Derek puts Peter on a probationary period before allowing him to join the pack, and says that he has to check in with Stiles. When Peter fails to check in one too many times, Stiles goes to track him down.
“I'm just looking for a guy. Peter, you know. older, arrogant, reeking of smug charm?”





	

Derek puts Peter on a probationary period and puts Stiles in charge of him. and Stiles is like, “why can’t you do it. why does it have to be me? Can't it be Scott! I MEAN, COME ON. SCOTT'S AT LEAST A WEREWOLF.”

Scott grimaces, “Well, he’s the one who bit me, so that could get … um. Complicated.” In reference to how Peter tried and was mildly successful with controlling Scott's actions in Season 1.

Stiles whips around and Derek interrupts him before he can start arguing with Scott. "Would you rather be training these three?” He jerks a thumb at Boyd, Erica, and Isaac. “I'm giving you an easy out. All you have to do is tell me if Peter doesn’t check in with you every day.”

“IF IT’S SO EASY, WHY CAN’T HE CHECK IN WITH YOU.” 

Stiles is adamant that he should not be in charge of Peter, but then Peter slinks toward him, sneaky like, shadowing up to Stiles’ side and going, “Come now, Stiles. I'll even make it easy on you. I could check in by text message and we wouldn’t even have to see each other.”

That makes Stiles brighten right up, but Derek immediately says, "NO."

And Peter laughs and rumbles into Stiles’ ear. “Well he doesn’t have to know, does he?”

Then all kinds of shenanigans where Peter is absolutely and totally just chilling out and getting up to no good while he catches up on all the things he missed out on while he was a) in a coma and b) being a vengeful evil psychopathic serial killer.

Days where Stiles gets used to Peter just showing up in the backyard and calling him from there (BECAUSE THEY DID EXCHANGE NUMBERS, EVEN IF STILES GRUMBLED ABOUT IT) and Peter waving up at Stiles when he looks out of the bedroom window

Then the days where Peter starts pushing the check in time and makes it later and later and Stiles stays up anyway, waiting until exhaustion kicks in, and Peter climbing into his room and getting a naughty enjoyment out of waking Stiles back up just as a check in and Stiles getting snippy a little because he JUST FELL ASLEEP and WHERE THE FUCK WAS PETER ANYWAY and IF HE WAS GOING TO BE THAT LATE, HE MIGHT AS WELL WAIT UNTIL MORNING

Peter pushing and pushing until he’s sure that Stiles won’t tell Derek if he misses a day. 

Stiles doesn’t tell Derek, but he does worry anyway. When Peter misses a day, Stiles sneaks a tracking thing onto Peter (like a little spell thing that leaves a trail behind wherever Peter goes so that Stiles can just whisper something and there’s the path Peter took)

Cue investigation and Stiles getting in over his head and WHAT’S A HUMAN DOING IN THIS PLACE type shenanigans. Stiles tries to play it cool, be in charge, be like, “I'm just looking for a guy. Peter, you know. older, arrogant, reeking of smug charm?” He’s got a little magic at hand to protect himself, but he’s still not awesome at it, certainly not enough to fend off the slew of supernatural creatures he finds himself suddenly surrounded by.

Then there’s Peter – at last – and thank god too, because Stiles is pretty sure that he’s about to get eaten. Peter’s testy about Stiles showing up suddenly but he goes with the flow of the weird pseudo-lies that Stiles has been telling and Stiles gets a good hard look at how deep the rabbit hole goes, so to speak, and he kind of likes it and Stiles makes a deal and says

“Alright, here’s what’s gonna happen. I won’t tell Derek that you’ve been missing your check ins,” he says. “But in exchange, you gotta bring me here.”

“If you’re with me, I won’t be missing my check ins.”

“Funny how that keeps me from getting caught in a lie.”

\\\\\

SO ONE OF THE RECLAIMING-LIFE SHENANIGANS THAT PETER DOES IS PURCHASING A MOTORCYCLE AND BASICALLY LOOKING AS CHEESY THREATENING AS POSSIBLE.

“You must be joking,” Stiles says when he sees Peter reach for a motorcycle helmet. He doesn’t know what he was expecting when he followed Peter into the parking lot – quite possibly he was expecting for Peter to melt into the shadows and leave Stiles to walk home on his own – but whatever it was, it was not a motorcycle. Definitely not the sleek, black monster that Peter’s standing beside.

Even if he was expecting a motorcycle, Stiles is pretty sure that he wouldn’t have included the helmet in said mental gymnastics.

“You do realize, if you’re going for the old school bad guy look, the apparent concern for physical safety ruins it,” Stiles says. “There’s no way that anyone could take you seriously with that thing on.”

Peter smiles and holds out the helmet until Stiles takes it. “If I went for the old school bad guy look, no one would trust me. If no one trusted me, I could hardly betray them later,” he says. Stiles can just barely hear Peter’s words through the muffling effect of the helmet, but Peter’s leaning close as he adjusts the straps tightly under Stiles’ jaw. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Hypothetically. Right,” Stiles mumbles as Peter’s fingers rub warmly under the soft belly of his throat. “Have you considered maybe not luring people into a false sense of security in order to stab them in the back?”

“Mm, but where would the fun be in that?” Peter says. “It’s nothing you have to worry about, is it, Stiles? After all, you’re too clever fall for those kinds of tricks.”

AND THEN STILES GETS A LIFT BACK HOME ON PETER'S MOTORCYCLE. AND THE THING REALLY IS A MONSTER. IT ROARS AND GROWLS AND RUMBLES LIKE A LIVING THING. IT’S SO POWERFUL THAT STILES HAS TO CLING TO PETER'S WAIST JUST TO FEEL LIKE HE WON’T FLY OFF WHEN PETER TAKES THE CORNERS A LITTLE SHARPLY. (AND YOU KNOW PETER'S DOING IT ON PURPOSE, THAT ASSHOLE. WITH HIS LAUGHING AT STILES' SUFFERING AND HIS DARK HAIR WHIPPING THROUGH THE WIND AND HIS HANDS PUSHING THE BIKE TO FASTER AND FASTER SPEEDS WHILE STILES' HEART IS POUNDING SO HARD THAT HE’S SURE THAT PETER CAN FEEL IT AGAINST HIS BACK.)

Stiles is a little dizzy when he gets home. His legs shaky when they touch ground. His skin feels numb and warm from the bike’s engine, and when he reaches for the straps to get the helmet off, his fingers are slick with sweat. He tries and tries again, but the straps slip through his grip, and then Peter’s hands are there, pulling and prying until the helmet’s off and Stiles can breathe again.

“Too much for you?” Peter asks – more curious than genuinely apologetic.

“I'm fine,” Stiles wheezes, holding onto his knees. “Just had a few close brushes with death back there.”

Peter hums, rubbing Stiles spine. “Maybe it isn’t such a good idea for you to come with me on my adventures. I mean, if you can’t take a one little bike ride–”

“I can handle it,” he snaps, shrugging off Peter’s comfort and reaching for the helmet, where it had been discarded to the grass. “I just gotta get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t want to make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” Peter drawls, and Stiles knows that he’s being baited here – he knows, but whatever. He doesn’t care. When Stiles sneers at him, Peter grins. “You’re only human after all.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Stiles says and shoves the helmet into Peter’s chest.

Peter plays at losing his breath and laughs as he covers Stiles’ hands over the helmet. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and gently pushes the helmet back toward Stiles. “Keep it.”

“Don’t you want it for the ride home?” Stiles asks.

“Normally I would,” Peter says as he starts up the motorcycle again, “but someone told me tonight that being concerned for my physical safety ruined my bad guy image and I can’t have that.”

\\\\\

Their surroundings are in a lull – the musicians, come and gone; the ghost dancers gathering the last moments of their chilly performance and easing into the trees again; the shapeshifters warming up on the far side of the fire. Stiles had been faintly concerned when Peter had started taking him outside the city, wondering if Peter was going to do something to him now that Stiles was coming with him voluntarily. 

Instead, it’s an evening of bonfires and chanting ancient Latin in the wide open ranch space of someone’s private home, and Peter’s bike is parked snugly between a tall truck and a wee Volkswagen Beetle along a row of vehicles that encircle the party. With the bonfire, Stiles hardly needs his jacket, so the zip’s dropped open, and every now and then, Stiles turns his back to the flames so that he can cool down a little.

Peter holds out what looks like a joint. “Here,” he says. “You’ll need this for the next thing.” He sounds a little drowsy in his voice, drawling and Southern in a way that doesn’t belong to a Californian.

“Is it weed?” Stiles asks, taking the joint and sniffing curiously. “It doesn’t smell like weed.”

“Something better,” Peter says. “You know how to smoke?”

“Not well,” Stiles admits, handing the joint back. “You gonna teach me or something?”

“Something like that,” Peter replies. “You know how to breathe, right?”

He smiles at Stiles’ eye roll, takes a drag from the joint and then gestures for Stiles to come closer. Which Stiles does because maybe he’s an idiot. He goes from feeling warm on only one side of his body one minute, to feeling flushed all over in the next as Peter slants their mouths together and cups his hand behind Stiles’ head. His thumb rubs up behind Stiles’ ear and he holds fast, even when Stiles kind of jerks back in surprise. Then he tastes it – the smoke rolling rich over his tongue and tasting like ashen berries and coating the inside of his mouth with a heady fragrance that smacks him right in the gut.

When Peter slides back, Stiles has enough time to gasp for air as he watches Peter take a second pull from the joint before leaning in again. He’s not ready this time either, but he tries – breathing in hesitatingly as Peter breathes out – and he gets a little dizzy with the effort of getting past the idea that he’s breathing smoke. 

“Here, let me–” Peter says, and then he’s back again, funneling smoke over Stiles’ tongue and past the sticky, wet cling of his mouth. Stiles struggles still, but then breathes in sharply when Peter’s hand slides up between his legs and strokes him. “There, we go. Incentive.”

Peter shifts, moving to make room for Stiles to lean against the bike next to him, and takes a final smoke. The joint burns bright in the night right up to the edge of Peter’s fingers, and then he casts it away. Stiles gets to see him when he leans in, eyes dark and intent, and hell, he meets him halfway, mouth already open.

He admits to himself that it’s less about the smoke than it is everything else. Peter’s mouth forms a plush seal against Stiles, and his palm rubs relentlessly over the growing swell of Stiles’ dick, making Stiles breathe in quick, needy gasps. It feels good to be touched – to feel wanted, even if it’s not from the most ideal of people. Peter is Capital-D Dangerous, no matter how safe-seeming these adventures have seemed so far, but against all of Stiles’ reasoning, he _likes_ that about Peter.

Stiles likes the dangerous edge he rides whenever Peter’s near him. It makes him feel just a little bit more alive to come out the other end whole, and right now – oh, as Peter licks past Stiles’ teeth, huffs into his mouth, and scratches his nails along the middle seam between his legs – 

“Fuck,” he gasps and tears his mouth away from Peter’s to _look_ – to watch as Peter’s thumb rubs over the front of his zipper. He shivers, breathing deep, and Peter’s sliding a tongue along his jaw to his ear, taking lazy tastes of him as he pushes Stiles’ shirt up with his fingers and unbuttons his fly. Stiles sways, eyes drifting closed, and he grabs Peter by the wrist. “Wait. Peter–”

When he opens his eyes again, his focus drifts lazily toward the people in the crowd around them. There are a few watching openly and it makes Stiles’ dick get stiffer against Peter’s fingers.

“Do you need more of an audience?” Peter asks against his temple. “I’d suggest moaning.”

Stiles does moan as Peter pulls his dick out for everyone to see as his fingers pull at its length and squeeze over the head, and he buries his face in Peter’s neck, trying to hide the flush of his face and muffle his sounds. Then Peter tuts – a scolding click of his tongue – and Stiles loses all support when Peter drops away.

Not just away.

To his knees.

Stiles scrabbles then, fingers curling around the cool metal that mark the rear of the bike and in Peter’s warm hair – and he makes a loud, drawn sound when Peter’s lips wrap around him and slide down slickly. He shivers and shakes and worries a little that the motorcycle will tip and he hooks one ankle behind Peter, straining and fretting and reaching for the finish line. He aches, burning hot in his chest. Peter’s tongue drags more sounds out of him – hitching noises, heaving gasps, needy whimpers – and when he comes, Stiles has to push Peter away to get him to stop.

Peter says nothing while Stiles is catching his breath, but he stands, licking his lips, and tucks Stiles back into his pants. He kisses Stiles again, not bothering with the pretense of smoke anymore, and pushes the sour taste of come into Stiles’ mouth. Sharing, it seems, is the theme of the night.

Stiles holds fast to Peter as the kiss comes to an end, not ready yet to see the crowd of people that are hidden from view by the breadth of Peter’s shoulders. He feels unsteady in all kinds of ways right now and it feels better to be trapped like this – between the metal-leather solidity of the motorcycle and the weight of Peter’s body.

Dropping a hand to the supple leather, Stiles pets the motorcycle’s seat with a newfound fondness. “You know,” he says. “I think I'm actually starting to like her.”

\\\\\

AND THEN THEY HAVE A WEIRD HAPPILY EVER AFTER? WHERE STILES CONTINUES TO LIKE DARK AND DANGEROUS AND ADRENALINE RUSHY THINGS. AND PETER IS GENUINELY DISTRACTED FROM HIS PLANS OF ULTIMATE EVIL BY THE OPPORTUNITY TO CORRUPT STILES AND STILES IS ENDLESSLY CORRUPTIBLE AND CURIOUS AND PETER IS WEIRDLY POSSESSIVE AND THERE’S EXPERIMENTATION WITH DRUGS AND PUBLIC SEX AND PAIN PLAY AND PETER HOLDING STILES TO HIS CHEST WITH A CLAWED HAND TO HIS THROAT WHILE HIS OTHER HAND STROKES STILES' DICK UNTIL HE COMES ON THE FACE OF A VERY BEAUTIFUL… SOMETHING? POTENTIALLY A TREE FAE, STILES DOESN’T KNOW.


End file.
